


savor the sorrow to soften the pain

by felicities



Category: Broadway RPF, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman, Wicked RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicities/pseuds/felicities
Summary: Kristin plays Glinda for the last time.





	savor the sorrow to soften the pain

_go quiet now,_  
_go sound,_  
_go safe._

—

 

The applause is earth-shattering on that rainy summer night in July, and Idina almost cannot believe what she’s seeing and hearing. Almost, because she knows how loved Kristin is, because she knows how brightly that woman sparkles even without trying, and because she knows that everything Kristin does is worthy of a standing ovation.

 

She watches from the wings, her heart racing a million miles an hour. She sees Kristin conjure tissue out of her bosom, wiping away the tears that refuse to cease rolling off her cheeks. Idina almost wants to cry herself.

 

Kristin deserves to be adored, and she is.

 

Idina’s never been prouder.

 

—

 

In the middle of What Is This Feeling, Idina thinks back to their last fight. She tries to remember, and of course, she can’t. Or at least, she doesn’t want to, because if she lets herself get carried away she knows how easily it would be to take the rest of the show down with her.

 

This isn’t the most vicious this number has been. In fact, this isn’t vicious _at all_. Somehow everything feels softer, with none of the usual bite that their castmates have taken to using as a litmus test of how angry their leads are with each other. (“Louder applause from the audience,” she overheard Michelle say once, “means that they're upset at each other, like for real.”)

 

“The energy is fucking frenetic,” she remembers Joe telling her and Kristin one day during the very first weeks of rehearsal. “It bleeds into the show.”

 

He was the first to figure it all out, she’s sure. Of course, he’s never said anything, but when she and Kristin are going through a particularly bad disagreement, Joe seems to be more sympathetic—or at least, less mean.

 

Idina remembers where she is. Kristin’s having all the fun with the song. The joy on her face is infectious.

 

She waves a little wave, and to her surprise Kristin does too.

 

She beams.

 

—

 

Elphaba’s Dance in the middle of Act 1 is the cause of it all. Both and she and Kristin fail to hold back their tears, and from then on, the crying never really comes to a halt.

 

Kristin twirls and turns, and when she’s facing Idina again, she looks sad and heartbroken, and that’s all it takes for Idina to let herself go.

 

During moments of vulnerability, Kristin does what she does best: hide her heartache behind a wall of brightness and effervescence.

 

Idina sits there on the bed completely mesmerised as Kristin goes into her ad libs, the whole theatre putty in her hands. She could do whatever she wants and they would follow. But Kristin’s attention is on her and her alone, and when she says “Keep your beautiful smile,” Idina feels her heart leap inside her chest.

 

—

 

She feels what the audience can’t see—Kristin’s sobbing quietly in her arms. She takes one whiff of her perfume and Idina can't _not_ say it.

 

“I’m gonna miss you,” she says, and Kristin cries harder. Kristin settles into her chest, and Idina could stay like this forever. She doesn’t want to pull away, but she does.

 

Somehow, that isn’t what hurt most.

 

(Kristin doesn’t look at her for all twenty-five seconds of that quick-change, but in the flurry of activity they find each other’s hands and Kristin presses her lips to the back of Idina’s right hand before walking back onstage. Idina is breathless.)

 

—

 

She’s no stranger to a sobbing, broken Kristin Chenoweth.

 

Their time together has been fraught, and she’ll be the first to admit that.

 

The timing of it all, the hiding, the pretending—it took a toll on her, but on Kristin even more.

 

So, sure, she’s seen Kristin fall apart countless times. But seeing her teetering on the edge is more painful than all the times Idina’s wrecked havoc on Kristin’s heart.

 

“Dreams—the way we planned ‘em,” Idina sings.

 

“If we work in tandem,” Kristin’s voice falters, but she presses on.

 

Idina can’t believe it: the Great Kristin Chenoweth crumbling right in front of her eyes. She's witnessed Kristin flub a line or two before; one thing she's learned quickly enough in the past year is that Little Miss Perfect isn't always perfect after all. But her screw-ups have never been emotionally charged—sure, she's missed the punchline of a joke, or put the wrong foot in front when it should've been the other. Even Kristin's free-flowing tears the past two hours don't compare.

 

This is different. This isn't a screw-up. This isn't a mistake. This is intentional.

 

This is Kristin letting go of the show. This is Kristin saying goodbye to Idina.

 

Idina laughs, because if she doesn't, she'll fall apart, too. So she lets out a chuckle, quickly, and then returns to singing. She has a show to finish; she has work to do.

 

She’ll be damned if she ruins even this.

 

—

 

Of course she’s prepared a speech.

 

What kind of person would she be if she hadn’t?

 

But at that moment, as she looks into the audience—all one thousand and five hundred of them—Idina loses it all. Words meant only for Kristin don’t make their way up her throat.

 

She stammers and she stutters and she can’t bring herself to say any of them. It's all on the tip of her tongue—"I love you," "Thank you," "I wish we were leaving together." But none of this comes out, and she doesn't know what to say, except that, in this lifetime, there truly never will be another Kristin Chenoweth.

 

This woman falling to pieces in front of her and in front of an enormous crowd of strangers and acquaintances and coworkers is absolutely, one hundred percent singular.

 

And there will never come a day when Idina won’t kick herself for letting her get away.

 

—

 

Idina lingers onstage a few minutes longer, until the sound on the other side of the curtains die down almost completely and all the cast and orchestra have shuffled out into the wings. She sits in the middle of the stage, and lets it all go.

 

She avoids Kristin's dressing room for the rest of the night. When she emerges from the shower, blessedly ungreen, she sees an envelope sit atop her vanity, her name elegantly calligraphed in pink ink.

 

_Idina,_

_Come over after._

_K_

—

 

She makes her way out of her dressing room a little before midnight. The lobby to the Gershwin is still filled with friends of Kristin, Norbert, and Joel—and photographers too, of course.

 

She and Kristin exchange a few words at the afterparty, and when prompted for another speech, she bashfully declines. She catches Kristin's eye from across the room, and she smiles softly.

 

They're asked to pose for a photo, Kristin decidedly tipsier than her, and when they pull apart all Kristin says is, “I’ll see you later?”

 

Idina, of course, says yes.

**Author's Note:**

> title from _one sweet love_ by sara bareilles; epigraph from _open hands_ by ingrid michaelson.
> 
> i had been working on snippets of this for some time now, but only got to polishing it this week. i was supposed to post it on july 18, the anniversary of kristin's last show, but real life - as it is wont to do - got in the way. 
> 
> i'm posting it now in honor of lady chenoweth's birthday. 
> 
> happy birthday, kc. 
> 
> i hope to god you're not reading this.


End file.
